Page 20 of Unrivaled Love
I queued up the audiobook ofFifth Flameat 2.5x speed as a refresher before I dive into the next book in the series on this impromptu vacation.Raven Squallhas been sitting in my backseat for months but I haven’t started it yet because training for my professional team and my country has taken every spare minute I have.
The sun is almost down when I pull into the parking lot at Sunshine Foods. The locally owned market has served Telluride for generations and I remember coming here with my siblings and the Svoboda kids to spend spare change on ice cream cones or snack cakes during our many family vacations back in the day.
I methodically move through each aisle and stock up. The idea of hunkering down alone and not seeing another fucking human for two whole weeks is appealing.
The drive from Salt Lake City to Telluride was long but still not long enough to clear my head of the resentment towards Pee Pee for her betrayal and righteousness I felt for how I handled it.
I tried to let it go, and move on, but the devil on my shoulder would chime in, riling me right back up.
Vengeance won out.
Fuck Pee Pee.
I pull two bottles of wine off the shelf. I don’t drink during the season but maybe with thisunofficialsuspension I can do someunofficialpartaking in rosé.
The bottles clank together as I roll the wobbly cart to the checkout. I stutter step when I am accosted by the "Wall of Fame". Pictures of local ski and snowboard superstars, a poster of me in my rookie season at Seattle, and a shiny new one of Bryson holding up The Stanley Cup. They’re fucking quick around here, aren’t they? He won it like a month ago. The fire in my belly, the one I thought was reserved for Pee Pee, burns higher at the reminder that Bryson got his championship first.
Since college I have pushed myself to best him. It’s not always easy to compare apples to oranges but I have my ways of calculating rankings and scoring percentages.
And until this last season, we were neck in neck.
I unclench my jaw and remind myself I'll get mine. Next summer. Just you wait. World Cup, here I come.
IfI can keep my spot on the team.
The smallest appreciation slides in for Coach McEmbry keeping this suspension off the books. I acknowledge it briefly and then send it back down so my fury can keep simmering.
“Can I see your ID?” The cashier asks after a snap of bubble gum.
She doesn't even look old enough to check the ID but I guess that's how the world works. Young people constantly come in to replace the old.
Not that I’m old. But the youngsters seem to be coming for me today.
"Wait, are you?" The girl turns towards the poster as she holds my card in her hands. "Are you really Jo Hamilton?"
"Guilty." I give her a closed mouth smile.
"Holy cow. Can I get your autograph?"
"Sure." I wait for her to find a scrap of receipt paper and a pen.
The ink doesn’t work at first so I have to drag this interaction out through drawing circles in the corner, wetting the tip with my tongue, trying another pen, and finally using a permanent marker she dug out of the register.
She chitters on while I bag my own fucking groceries because apparently I’m not old enough to warrant a bag boy. It’s fine, I just want to get the hell out of here.
It isn't that I hate the attention. Normally, I love interacting with fans. I am proud to be an athlete in women's sports and take my role model status seriously. But today, at the end of a long fucking drive where I spent six and half hours stewing over my suspension and the hairy balls on my rookie teammate, I don't want to interact with any humans.
Finally in the sanctuary of my own car again, I relax and wind my way up the mountain to the vacation home. The sky has turned that unique shade of purple I only see here in Telluride when the sun has just set after a perfect alpine summer day.
As I make the final turns towards my destination the sky darkens further to an inky almost black. Without my high beams on I might have missed the little sign at the end of the driveway greeting me.
“Welcome to Casa de Svobilton.” I say out loud as I turn in following the family tradition.
Memories of childhood summers with the Svobodas come flooding back. How we'd play Kick the Can and Ghosts in the Graveyard for hours. How on winter breaks we'd leave before the sun had fully risen in the sky to get to the ski lodge and then return with wind-chapped faces to eat chili and play cards or board games while the adults sat in the hot tub.
I smile remembering taking my nieces and nephews up the gondola last year. Winter at the mountain house has been my only vacation for years now. Bryson can’t come because it’s the middle of the hockey season and I take advantage of his absence.
But I’m struck by the beauty of the house now, surrounded by leaves and greenery and the spark of wildflowers that dot the ground. For the briefest of moments I allow myself to regret staying away from summer family gatherings.
